Tudor musings Season 2
by Dave-The-Laugh's-NewHotness
Summary: My Tudors Musings have now been updated, I'm doing one story per season, so every oneshot per season will go in that season's story obviously . This is for my musings that take place within Season 2
1. A King's Regrets 1536

Ok, so this is a short fic about Henry's thoughts before and after the execution of Anne Boleyn. Please R&R, even though it's short, and a bit...well, lacking in focus.

I own nothing, funnily enough.

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She's guilty, officially. Of course, since I am King, it doesn't matter whether she is guilty in truth. After all, I AM the King. My will is God's will, or so Wolsey told me. Or was it Anne that first told me that? Funny, how much they despised each other, how much they sought each other's ruin, yet how similar they are...were. Both had strong, even extreme views and opinions. Both tried to do their best for me – I see that now – but ended up failing, and failing spectacularly. Wolsey, who fought tirelessly on my behalf, started to champion Katherine's cause, while Anne, who promised me everything a wife can give a man, killed my son. Her toxic body poisoned my innocent, unborn son.

Both were arrested on charges of treason, when they could not fulfil their great promises. The main difference was that Anne stood trial for the treason she didn't commit, while Wolsey didn't have to answer for the treason he did commit. Anne will stand up in front of her peers, men who have bowed and scraped to her, men who have promised undying devotion to her as their Queen, and she will bare her neck in front of these invited peers. She will bare her beautiful, long, white neck and a Frenchman – how fitting – will wield a sword and forever mar the creamy white skin by separating beautiful, tempting head from neck. Anne's dark, dancing eyes will lose their light, and her voice, her husky, slightly French voice, will soon be only a memory in my dreams, and in the dreams of Elizabeth...but only for a while.

Elizabeth. Elizabeth, the child I staked all my hopes on. I broke with Rome for her. I cast aside Katherine for her. And what will she take from her mother? Will it be her hair, her raven's wing hair? No, for her hair is as red as mine, as red as any Tudor's. There is no chance she is any other man's.

Will it be the eyes, those eyes that always hold – held – no, hold, a hint of promise? Or the unbreakable spirit – and everyone knows how I tried to break Anne's spirit, but to no avail? Or will Elizabeth possess that which is so dangerous in a woman – the ability to fascinate men so entirely that they are physically unable to think of anything else but her? Seeing the way she charms the members of her household, I find it hard to believe she has not inherited this wonderful gift from Anne.

I also think she'll inherit Anne's wonderful mind, though it remains to be seen whether it will be as sharp as Anne's. I hope it will. Though she will never be called upon to rule – and Jane will have a son, I am sure of it – I hope Anne's spirit lives on in Elizabeth, our issue.

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After the execution

She's dead. Her nagging voice will never bother me again. Her bewitching eyes will never cause me to lose myself again. I will never be so humiliated again. But I fear I will never be so loved again.

I am to marry Jane in 9 days time. The length of our courtship amuses me, when I think of how long Anne kept me at bay. How long I waited, and how worth it she was. To own her, body and soul was beyond delight. It was impossible to describe...it was impossible. She was impossible. And now she has learnt that no one says 'no' to their King and gets away with it.

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Yes, it is short, and a little lacking in direction towards the end, but I wanted to show how Henry had connected, in his mind, loving and desiring Anne, with having her executed.


	2. An Adulteress' Confession 1536

Another oneshot in my Tudor Musings series, this one deals with Anne Boleyn the night before her execution. I'm not sure about this one as it was written in a rush, but thought I'd post it anyway. As always, reviews are greatly appreciated.

I own nothing

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I have destroyed myself, my family, and my husband's love. I have confined my daughter to years of neglect, hardship and strife as she struggles with 'illegitimate' status. She will pay the price for my mistakes for years to come. I have stolen her father's love from her.

My name is Anne Boleyn, and I will die tomorrow. Do I deserve it? That depends on who you ask. My husband, and half of England, thinks I do, and so I must die, for my husband is sovereign ruler of England, and his word is quite literally law. My women and some of my family think I am innocent of all charges and am only being executed because it's the quickest and easiest way to get rid of me.

I say that I deserve to die, but not for the crimes I will die for. I deserve to die for ruining the life of a good woman, and breaking her and her daughter's hearts. I deserve to die for the tearing apart of a nation and for setting free the tyrant that is now King Henry VIII of England. I deserve to die for ruining the lives of five innocent men: Mark Smeaton, my lute player, was an innocent who was so racked with confusion, pain and fear that he confessed. Henry Norris, a good man and my cousin's betrothed, William Brereton and Francis Weston were all innocent courtiers, in a world where flirtation is the order of the day and everyone knows it means nothing. And George Boleyn, my younger brother George. How could they claim I'd had incestuous relations with him? I have only ever loved him as a brother, and he has only ever loved me as a sister. It would indeed me against the laws of God and man to do otherwise. They are all dead, because of me. Had I never been Queen, these 5 men would still be alive now. So yes, I deserve to die.

I have not been a good wife to my husband – he who gave me so much, who raised me from just a courtier's daughter to become a Marquis in my own right and the Queen of England. I should have treated him better, I should have given him a son. That is the real reason why I am to die: I miscarried a baby boy. In Henry's eyes, I killed his son, so he will kill me. Except everyone forgets that MY boy died that day as well. I was not allowed to grieve as the King was, I had to go back to my role of pleasing the King, something I'd long since lost either the ability or the desire to do. His other women had killed my love for the King, and yet also somehow made it stronger. The more he strayed, the more jealous I became. I tried to get him to stop, but I did it in the wrong way. I should have taken a lesson from my predecessor. She merely looked the other way when her husband established me in her household. Could she have known, I wonder, what would happen? Or did she assume I would go the way of the others – into the King's bed and then swiftly out of it when he got bored. Did she think I would be like my sister, the older, more pliable Boleyn girl? IF she did, that is why she lost. People have always assumed Mary and I are similar: in fact, we could not be more different.

I wonder what will happen to my family now. They will lose their position, of course, their hard-earned status will vanish in the night. The King will only have Seymours round him now, not Boleyns. Our reign of power is over, and how could it not be? My brother the heir, is dead, and I, the shining star, die tomorrow. But I have so much left in me, if the King could only see past Mistress Seymour's fine form. Surely he will recover his love for me. He pursued me hard and fast for 8 years, why has our love turned bad so soon? Had he treated me better, I would have been a better wife. Had he not given me cause for upset, we would have a son and heir now, and he would be able to rest easier. Had all this happened, I may even be carrying yet another child by now. After all, of all the things they can and do say about me, one thing they can never accuse me of is infertility. Three pregnancies in three years is something to be proud of, or it would be if I'd carried those children of mine, children I will never meet on this earth, safely to labour. Maybe that is truly why I must die: My body killed those innocents, hence my body must die. An eye for an eye.

Whatever the reasons, whatever is truth and whatever is a lie, this single, sole truth remains: Tomorrow I die, and so I must make my peace and not dwell on what could have been, what might have been, or what should have been. I do not want to spend my last night on earth fretting over regrets.

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Please tell me what you thought of that, or if anything could be improved. The next musing will, I think, be from Catherine of Aragon's POV.


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